Everything is wrong with me
Thursday, June 30, 2005
search words, subway, flack, vacation notes
Yes, it’s that time once again! I have run out of things to write about, so below are some terms entered into Yahoo, Google and other search engines that brought people to this site.
This time around, I’ve broken then down into categories for easier viewing. Also, I’ve recently super-sized the site counter that tracks these things, so I have a lot more of them.
- celebrity circumcision (9 people)
- celebrity armpits (6 people)
- celebrity dicks (4 people)
- celebrity handjobs (2 people)
Perhaps I should make the byline of this blog: “www.jasonmulgrew.com – If you have a creepy sexual fantasy about a celebrity, you’ve come to the right place! And yes, we do have a list of celebrities who are circumcised, you sick fuck!”
Hints and help:
- tips and ways on how to draw porn and nudity
- how to stop pit stains
- my erection wouldn’t go down after 7 hours why?
- He’s dumped me and i want to die
- is vodka good for the colon
- do asian nerds masturbate?
- lose weight while pooping
- homemade painkillers
Lots of good ones here. I don’t know who I feel worse for: the girl who’s been dumped and wants to die or the guy with the seven hour erection. Probably the latter.
And trust me, though I have no scientific evidence to back it up, I am certain that you can not loose weight by pooping. If that was the case, I’d be 115 pounds.
- suck my ass jason mulgrew
- laundry mulgrew
- jason mulgrew sex partner
- jason mulgrew fat chick
- jason mulgrew stay at home dad
- jason mulgrew book deal
Nothing warms you quite like looking over the search terms and learning that someone found your site by googling your name and “suck my ass”. Sweet. And I don’t know if that "book deal" person knows something that I don’t, but they should contact me asap if that is the case.
What the fuck?
- free indian gay guy’s email address
- lick the doritos after gas bypass surgery
- love it when you gently tug on my nipples. it sends chills up my spine.
- gotta piss pee so bad badly grab crotch dick desperation cant wait any longer more
- celebrity residents upper east side 2004
- every time a waitress breaks a glass she has to give the guy a blowjob porn
- shark genitals
- virginity to a dog
I don’t really have a joke for any of these. I'll tell you what though, I wouldn't mind getting the email address of an Indian gay guy - for free, no less.
Shit ain’t right:
- cut her gigantic fake boobs
- dad son fuck
- my student gave me a blowjob
- jerking off my buddy
- kids eating pussy movie
- oral sex by hooker sore on mouth herpes
- grandmom getting fucked
A movie about kids eating pussy? Really? Is that a Disney feature? And those kids are pretty advanced. When I was kid, all I wanted to eat was macaroni and cheese and hot dogs. But that was in the age of innocence known as the ‘80’s, and times have changed since then.
I saw two disturbing images from the subway this morning.
The first was a very large women reading a book titled, “Fit For Life, Not Fat For Life.”
I should clear something up before I proceed further: I hate fat people. Not all fat people, just the really, really fat ones.
Don’t get me wrong, I am a very husky man myself who loves nothing more than to overeat. For example, on Saturday my diet consisted of:
- Breakfast (noon): two bowls of Honey Bunches of Oats, half pint Oatmeal Cookie Chunk Ice Cream
- Lunch (4pm): a mozzarepa at a street fair in the West Village (two round slices of cornbread with mozzarella cheese in the middle – and yes, it’s as good as it sounds)
- Dinner (8pm): Thai food (tip-tum fritters, pad thai), half pint Cookies ‘n’ Cream ice cream
- Drunk dinner (4am): leftover Thai food, half of leftover sausage roll, pretzels dipped in nutella, toddler
So I love to eat. A lot. Right now, I'm eating a whole turkey as I type this. It's delicious.
But the reason why I hate really fat people is because though I am husky and I make a pig of myself, I don’t know how one takes what I do to the next level, going from “fat but it’s ok” to “holy shit that person is breathing marinara sauce.” I eat a lot and I can't imagine eating much more. The only reason I stop eating is because I think I'm going to have a heart attack or my right side starts going numb. So I guess what I'm saying is that I'm a fat fuck and if you are much fatter than me, you are really a fat fuck. If you're so fat that you having trouble walking or getting out of bed, I don't have any sympathy for you but I do have some advice: don't eat three Whoppers in one sitting. Just get one. You'll be fine.
But I saw this woman on the subway and it got me pretty sad. I often read on the subway, mostly because I want to seem smart in front of any fellow riders who are a) ladies and b) hot. And I go to get lengths to show that I'm reading "Ecco Homo" or "The Unbearable Lightness of Being", coughing, moving, and otherwise bringing attention to myself so said hot chick can see the title of the book. Surprisingly, this has never gotten me laid.
The "Fit for Life, Not Fat for Life" title was prominently displayed and seeing this woman reading it made me all...icky inside. I have no idea where I'm going with this and I think I'd need a psychologist to help figure it out. Perhaps it triggered some self-loathing or self-pitying feeling deep inside my black, cold, dead, black, cold heart? I don't know. Moving on...
Second image: yesterday I wrote about getting a blowjob for a junkie and sho' 'nuff this morning I saw a real-live junkie on the subway wearing a shirt that said "Can I interest you in a 3some?" Um, no sister. Not unless I'm a SUPER drunk. Actually, I totally would, but I'm running late for work. And the third person: does he have long hair or otherwise look like Bo Bice? Because that would be great.
I've taken some flack via email for yesterday's post about "random hurtful emails", as a number of you wrote saying they were too "mean". Assholes, of course they are mean - they are called "random hurtful emails", not "daily pick me-ups" or "friendship notes". I assure you my friends and I can take this level of ball busting and we enjoy it. Just because your dad cheated on your mom and it ruined you doesn't mean you should take it out on me. It's not my fault you are weak.
Thank you for understanding.
This evening I am leaving NYC and heading to Philly to start my vacation, which will take me from Philly to the lovely shores of North Wildwood, NJ, back to Philly, and then back to NYC. Some notes:
1) I will post at least once, possibly more, while on vacation. I am bringing my laptop with me and I have a tendency to get very bored very easily when I have no structure in my life. Boredom = posts. Of course, I will spend most of my time working on my book, tentatively titled The New York Times Bestseller, but I should find time for a post or two. Getting internet might be a problem, but if I have to dictate a post to Site Guy Brendan I will do so. In the meantime, please be sure to visit our "Friends". They thank you for your patronage.
2) Regarding your emails: if you’ve sent me an email over the past few days and haven’t yet received a response, you’re probably not going to get one. I’m not saying this to brag ("It’s ok that my penis is small because I get a lot of email") nor I am saying this to be a dick ("Even with my kitten-penis I’m still too good to respond to your emails"). On the contrary, I am saying thank you for taking the time to email me. But due to the influx of emails over the past week or so I simply can’t answer them all or most or even many of them. I do read everything though. And yes, I’m a terrible person, but you knew that already.
3) The "Drink Until You Shit" tour will be going on Saturday night, July 9th. For those people in the South Philly/Two Street area, if you want to go, please contact David Flood. If you don’t know who David Flood is or how to contact him, you shouldn’t be going anyway. If you're really pathetic, you can just troll around North Wildwood looking for thirty guys in black shirts screaming "Shit! Shit! Shit!" at the top of their lungs. Whatever.
4) For those of you in the greater Philadelphia area, I will be doing a small spot on the show 10!, airing at 10am tomorrow on (you guessed it) channel 10. If you're looking to be disappointed and want to like me less, I highly recommend tuning in. The interview is live and the questions will not be given to me beforehand, so you can watch as I sweat and stumble nervously over answers (apparently, standard procedure is a "pre-interview", but 10! likes to keep things "friendly" and "nonchalant", which doesn't really mesh with my style, as I like to keep things "angry" and "filled with curse words"). Also, though the Lord has cursed me with a number of physical minuses (bad hair, back hair, man boobs, poor posture), I only get about two pimples a year. Naturally, I have one now, on the eve of my non-"Court TV" television debut. Sweet. And if all else fails I will be dressed badly. So it should be a good time for everyone. Except me of course. So tune in!
Otherwise, have an enjoyable and wonderful 4th of July weekend. Godspeed.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
a taste of my own medicine
----- Original Message -----Yeah, I got nothing.
From: [name withheld]
Sent: Wed, 29 Jun 2005 17:54
Subject: random hurtful email
Remember when the Eagles didn't win the Superbowl? They were so close. Man, its funny how bad they lost.
- [name withheld]
p.s. to be fair: I'll give you some retaliation points:
-I once threw a record up in the air, didn't move, and let it hit me at rockets speed right in my eye.
-I dated a guy who would sleep with me and make me leave at 4am cause he thought his ex-wife would walk in. mind you, she lived hours away, they'd been divorced for 7 years and I later found out that he actually wanted me to leave so he could sleep on the roof, where the scabbies wouldn't get him. He was a construction worker from Collingswood, NJ, you know how they are there. I still can't hear the name Jim without my feelings getting hurt. He also had an obsession with wanting to smear peanut butter on my vagina and watch as his dogs licked it off. Trust me, I never did it.
random hurtful emails
If my friends and I have one thing in common, it's that we love to hurt each other's feelings. I've thought long and hard about this, but the intentional ball busting is definitely the least common denominator among us. Some of us like sports, but not all; some of us like music, but not all; one of us once got arrested at an amusement park for taking a shit in a brown paper bag on a dare (Joe Zadlo I'm looking in your direction), but not all.
But we all love to break each other's stones. The good news is that most of us are self-deprecating and can handle it well. And for those who aren't self-deprecating, well, we deprecate for those guys.
I think this is partially a product of where I'm from. Where I grew up, breaking balls was a way of life, a true art form, a necessary survival skill. We're not talking "snaps" like "Your momma's so fat she had to get baptized at Sea World" or "Your momma's like a bowling ball: she gets picked up, fingered, thrown in the gutter, and comes back for more". It's nothing that, um, organized, but generally if there's anything I can do or say to you to make you look bad in front of people, then I'm going to do it. And I expect you to do the same.
But I believe I've taken this to a new level recently with the inception of something I like to call the Random Hurtful Email. Perhaps the best way to explain this is to give an example.
When he was younger, my buddy Bob's house burned down. It was a very traumatic experience for him. In the middle of the night, he was awoken from his sleep, had to escape the house, and then watched it burn. He then lived in a trailer park for two months while the house was getting fixed. He has confided in us, his close friends, that this was the worst time of his life.
On Monday morning, I sent an email to Bob and five of our friends. The subject of the email was "Fire". The text of the email went:
Hey Bob,Thus the Random Hurtful Email. A lot of things make me happy: getting drunk and falling off a boat, killing an animal with my bare hands (or a pipe or sharp rock), getting high and hanging around a cemetery, watching children in a swimming pool, getting a blowjob from that junkie who hangs out 7th & Ritner for only $3 and a pack of Juicy Fruit because she's absolutely feening for a hit, etc. But there's nothing quite like the satisfaction of knowing you just forced a friend to relive the most painful experience of his life - and it came out of nowhere. Jackpot!
Remember when your house burned down and you lost everything and had to live in a trailer park? That fucking sucked.
Of course, my friends are ruthless and pounced on this, chiming in with, "Yeah, that did stink when you watched your home burn before your eyes" and "Living in a trailer park must have been embarrassing." Good stuff.
Another example. When he was eleven or so, two men broke into my friend Mike's house. His dad wasn't home at the time (he was away on business), so he and his two brothers hid in his mother's bedroom with her, door barricaded, listening to these two guys go through their home, crying their eyes out, unsure if they were their only to rob or to rob and hurt them. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, they left. To this day, Mike shakes when he tells the story.
Yesterday, I emailed Mike, cc'ing a few of our friends who know the story. The subject was "fear".
Mike,Me: 1, Mike: 0.
Dude, do you remember when those guys broke into your home and you hid with your brothers and mom in her room, hoping they wouldn't kill you? I imagine being the victim of a home invasion is pretty bad. Is it?
This afternoon I'm sending one to my friend Jim. I'll call it "your parents' broken marriage" and I think it'll go something like:
Jim,So anytime you need a self-esteem boost, I recommend you try the Random Hurtful Email. If life has taught me anything, it's that the only true way to feel better about yourself is by making those around you feel worse about themselves. Or something like that. I don't even know anymore.
Do you remember when your mom had to divorce your dad because he couldn't keep his dick out of women that weren't her?
Monday, June 27, 2005
press and crap
I wasn't planning on writing today, because as you may have noticed, since I've stopped writing every day, Monday has become my day of rest. But anytime I can talk about how great I am, well, you know I'm gonna do it. Welcome to the "manic" portion of our manic depression.
(That is a horrible first sentence. The cadence is weird and there are too many commas. Ugh. This is why I don't post on Monday.)
Anyway, I've gotten some press lately that I wanted to share with you all, mostly so I can get in your pants.
1) On Friday, our lil' blog was featured in the official blog of The Philadelphia Inquirer, Blinq. You can view the entry here.
2) I was also in a small feature in Sunday's edition of The Philadelphia Inquirer that talked about the three Philly guys who made People's "Top 50" list. You can view the write-up here (keep scrolling, all the way down - there you go).
What you can't see on this page is this picture that was used, the same one from the Gelf interview. This picture was printed in the article in hard-copy, but it's not on the internet.
What's lost on my parents and family in this whole process is the joke inherent in the fact that I've been named as one of the "hottest" bachelors, because I AM NOT HOT. In any way. Like, not even close. I'm not even the "hottest" person in my family (my brother is better-looking and now the good news: he's bisexual).
So with all these interviews and media requests, I intentionally sent out this picture. I wanted something that said less "I'm hot" and more "I'm a convicted sex offender who once beat a homeless man to death with a cue ball in a sock". So viola.
But my family doesn't get this. My dad called me on Sunday afternoon from Philly (being in NYC, I didn't see the article):
Dad: "Jas, you're in the paper, but this picture is horrible."
Me: "Is it the one where I have a moustache?"Dad: "Yeah. You look scary. And bald. It's really bad."
Me: "Well Dad, it's a joke. I mean, I have a moustache in the picture!" [forgetting my dad has a moustache and thus thinks it's totally acceptable and probably doesn't see the humor in me having one]
Dad: "Well the joke's on you, because you look terrible."
About an hour later, my mom called:
Mom: "Jas, did you see this picture?"Me: "Yeah, Mom. And I used it on purpose as a joke."
Mom: "A joke? What do you mean?"Me: "I mean I'm not 'hot', so I purposely sent a picture of me looking creepy to sort of make fun of it."
Mom: "Jas, you are very good-looking. Don't be silly. I think you should try to be on 'The Bachelor.'"
Me: "I have to go."
3) Lastly, I was in the Metro in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia this morning. You can log-in to their site to check it or view it here.
I think this is a pretty funny article, as Dorothy Robinson captures it pretty well. Good for her. I've already gotten in touch with her and she's agreed to write my biography, Jason Mulgrew: He STINKS, after my premature death at age 29 (think: hot nacho cheese, roller skates, abandoned mine).
Many, many thanks to publicist-extraordinaire Holly Russel for all this. Holly's been very helpful in this whole process and I am very much indebted to her. And after a series of intense negotiations, she has agreed to be my full-time publicist, and will hence be known as Publicist Holly (although I'm pretty sure we're at minute fourteen of my fifteen minutes, but I digress). She drove a hard bargain, but she's joining the team (along with Site Guy Brendan and myself) for six pints of Stella a month. I don't know how I'm going to afford her, but damn she's good.
(And don't tell Site Guy Brendan this; he's only getting four Heinekens and a bacon, egg and cheese a month. He'd be pissed if he knew Holly was making more than him. God, managing people is so hard.)
And a personal thank you to you all, as we have reached a pretty major milestone: for the month of June, we have over one million hits. Naysayers will say, nayingly, "Well, that's probably because you were in People, asshole." This is true, but in the month of May, before I was named "Sexiest Man Alive or Dead With a Criminal Record", we had 780,000 hits, so it's not that much of a statistical aberration. So without getting all soft on you, thank you for coming and continuing to come. The bad news is that my egotism knows no satiety, so keep fucking passing it on.
And I promise that pretty soon this People thing will blow over and I'll go back to being a fuck up. Not that I'm not a fuck up now, but you know what I mean. If you're sick of me talking about it, the end is near (not tomorrow though, I'll talk about it then too).
So thank you, godspeed, and all the best.
(Is anyone else amazed that I can have a million hits a month and still be a couple of hundred dollars in the hole for this website? Or is it just me? God, I need some sort of business manager or something. The position is available for anyone willing to work on a monthly salary of a bottle of white wine, two spaghetti and meatball dinners, a three handjobs. Please inquire within.)
Friday, June 24, 2005
a few quick things because I am lazy
Wednesday's post about the drinking tour by my buddy David and I got some legs and many of you suggested that I do a national drinking tour, stopping off in cities and getting drunk with y'all. Of course, this is probably the greatest idea I've ever heard in my life. Two little problems:
1) Yes, I am an internet quasi-celebrity and all, but I don't quite know if enough random people would come to meet me in a bar in say Denver or Portland. The solution? Start handing out leaflets for the site at your local city hall and email it to your local papers. Trust me, this will work.
2) Then there's the whole thing about me having a job. I don't know if I could say to my boss, "Yeah, listen, here's the deal. I need, like, a month off. I'm going to fly from city to city to get drunk with a bunch of people I don't know. I was just gonna quit to do this, but I realized that at some point during this trip I am definitely going to end up in the hospital, so I need the job for the health insurance. Cool?"
So we'll have to put this on the back-burner until a) I can drop the "quasi" or b) I get fired. I think "b" will come first, but let's not think about that right now, as I'm going to spend $300 on booze this weekend.
Last night, I got a lil' high and spent the evening dividing my time between write back to your emails and watching the Spurs-Pistons game. Really boring game. I think it's time that I cut off my association with the NBA, but that's not the point here.The point is that while watching the Spurs and their fans celebrate, I almost cried. Sure, I was on drugs, and sure, I wasn't wearing pants, but more importantly, I NEED to see a Philly team win a championship - soon. I know I beat this to death last January and February when the Eagles were in the playoffs, but I can say that if the Eagles were to win the Super Bowl, it would be the greatest thing to ever happen to me. If the Phillies, Sixers, or Flyers won, it might be the third best thing to ever happen to me (and no, I don't know what the first two are, so leave me alone). That's all. Just worth mentioning. Nothing funny about it. I'm just really sad.
All my bitching and moaning Tuesday about not being interviewed is starting to pay off. Check out this interview I did with Gelf and marvel at my awesome fucking moustache. Sure, I look bald, but at least I don't look fat. And depending upon your computer's resolution you may be able to see the dark circles under my eyes, so let it be a lesson: stay away from drugs.
(I sent the interview link to some friends last night and my buddy Jeremy wrote back: "Oh geez. Is there any way you can get that picture changed? You look like a beastiality-lovin’ meth fueled child molestor trucker from the 70s." It's the nicest thing he's ever said to me.)
(And really, all the guys out there should work on bringing the moustache back, just so these three men can be vindicated.)
This is a music video of David Hasselhoff doing a cover of "Hooked On A Feeling". It might take a little while to get up and running, but I promise you it's worth it.
I don't have a joke for this. I can't understand what grown, rational man would watch the final cut of this in the editing room and say, "You know? This looks great. Let's go with it."
Favorite moments:1) Flying with the birds
2) Putting the salmon in his mouth
3) Jumping with the natives
I mean, wow.
(thanks to my buddy Kyle for the link)
(and have a good weekend everyone)
Thursday, June 23, 2005
revving, moving, the messy ponytail, vacation & help, emails, music
Please help me out here, because this is something I know nothing about. Is there any real mechanical need to rev the engine of a motorcycle for a solid ten minutes, shaking every windowpane within three miles and killing nearby small animals with the intense noise and reverberations?
Last night, there was some sort of motorcycle gang eating in the Little Italy restaurant I live above. Actually, it was more like some sort of motorcycle festival, because they weren't just in that restaurant, but all over the place. I'm not sure what type of motorcycle gang/club/group says, "Hey, why don't we all go out for a nice alfresco dinner in Little Italy tonight?", but I digress.
And so what I and the other residents of Little Italy were treated to were five solid hours of apartment-shaking/night-ruining engine revving, courtesy of these bikers. I can't articulate how infuriating this was. All night long I sat in the apartment, hearing (and feeling) the vroom-vroom-vrooooom of the engines, filling with an unimaginable rage. It was so loud that I was legitimately worried that my air conditioner was going to fall out of my window, shook from the window pane and dropped on the unsuspecting asshole diners below.
This is how fucking murder happens, my friends. Jim Norton has a great bit in his stand-up routine in which he says something to the effect of "There is no anger like the anger of a person kept awake by another person's snoring." I have often dreamed of stealing this bit and building a list of Excusable Reasons for Murder. For example, if you were trapped in a hotel room on vacation with a buddy who snored so loudly that he kept you up all night and was ruining your trip, a jury might not convict you for murder if you took his life on night three at about 4am.
And if snoring is on that list, motorcycle engine-revving is up there. I swear to you that if I had had a firearm in my apartment last night, at the very least I would have gone down there and shot it into the air. I was angrier than I've been in months and possibly ever.
And so I ask...is there any other point to revving your engine other than annoying the shit out of everyone in your half of Manhattan? Are you just trying to say, "Hey everyone, wake up! Stop watching tv! And come look and see how loud my motorcycle is! I fucking rule! I am in a motorcycle club! We are bad ass! And you are gay! Yes! My penis is huge! Check out at my bike! It's so loud! Again, you are homosexual!" or does it actually help the bike in some way?
Don't get me wrong, I love motorcycles and bikers (and yes, I'm just saying this so I don't get my ass kicked). My dad had a motorcycle when I was growing up and when I was 16 he actually bought me my very own. I think it was his last ditch effort to make me a man. I'm sure he thought to himself, "Well, I tried to teach him to fight and to play sports and that didn't work. On top of that, he was Julia Roberts from 'Pretty Woman' for Halloween last year and has a very girlie speaking voice. Guess I should get him a motorcycle." Sadly, it wasn't meant to be for me and the motorcycle. Having only learned to ride a normal bike the year before and never very good at the whole "coordination" thing, after two weeks my dad sold it to the brother of a guy I went to high school with. Oh well.
But please, if you have a bike, don't rev it up outside my house. I'm too scared to buy a gun but I did buy a can of mace and I swear to you that I will use it. If you don't believe me, test me mother fucker.
Payback is a bitch. This evening, I have to help a friend move. My friend Abby (who, by the way, is the happiest woman on earth since the People thing, since it mentions her name all over the place) has a car. When I was moving last month, she helped me out a lot by making runs to my new apartment with my stuff, cramming all of my junk into her Saab, driving through the streets of Chinatown while I screamed, "No! Make a left! Damn it! Where the hell are all these Asian people coming from anyway??? Are they falling from the fucking sky???"
Tonight, Abby is moving her "big stuff" to her new place in Brooklyn. And now she's calling in a favor. Crap.
What's even better about the situation is that Abby will have three people helping her move in addition to me: her dad, her brother-in-law, and one of her dad's co-workers. What's so good about this? Abby's dad is 6'6" and a farmer. Her brother-in-law is also a farmer. And the third guy is a farmer too, but when not farming he goes to Alaska to do deep sea crab fishing, like in the show "The Deadliest Catch".
These guys spend their days in the hot sun hauling 100 pound bags of seed. I spend my days in an air conditioned office eating peanut M&M's. If anyone has a video camera, I encourage you to come to Brooklyn to film this, because it's going to be comical. My only hope is that I can escape the embarrassment by somehow pulling a hamstring on the subway ride over to Brooklyn, rendering myself unable to move. Otherwise, I'm in trouble.
Ladies, can we have a moment?
There is a phenomenon sweeping the nation that drives men wild (or at least drives me wild). What is it, you ask? The messy ponytail.
I tried to find a picture as an example, but to no avail. But you know what I'm talking about...the hair is pulled back in a ponytail, but it's not in a long tail form but rather half-up and half-down, and some strands of hair loosely hang in the front and in the back. Like a messy ponytail.
This is a popular look for women in the summer and I think it's pretty darn hot. It says, "You know what? It's hot so I'm gonna pull my hair back. But I really don't care about what it looks like, so whatever." And we all know nothing is hotter than not caring.
So please ladies, for my sake and the sake of men everywhere, rock the messy ponytail. Thank you.
Two things to be aware of:
1) As I mentioned yesterday, I will be on vacation from the week of Monday, July 4 to Friday, July 8. There will be no posts this week (most likely).
2) My birthday is Sunday, July 17. I will be 26. Start saving your pennies now, because we will have our biannual jasonmulgrew.com pledge drive. Last time (December), less than .01% of you gave. Let's try to improve on that this time, especially since I had to shell out some extra cash to keep the site from crashing because too many of you were coming. I recommend putting your loose change in a coffee can, though donations will be via Paypal (all you need is a credit/debit card).
I've gotten quite a bit of emails from you recently. I am trying to answer as many as I can, but if I don't, please do not take it personally. Note: I will NOT answer your email if you put "boobies" in the title and you do not have boobies anywhere in the email. This is just downright mean. Getting me all giddy and excited like that, thinking I'm going to see some boobies, only to have a plug for your blog in the email, well, it's just not right.
But if you're new to the site and you dig it, I ask that you pass it along. This site is powered by word of mouth because my ass is too broke to do any advertising and I only have like eight friends, so that's all the readers I can contribute. Link it on your blogs or websites, email it to your friends, drop a link in a message board, use the "Spread the Word" page - whatever you're most comfortable with. Just fucking pimp it already because I'm freaking out over here.
Thank you in advance for your support.
"I'm Lonely (But I Ain't That Lonely Yet)" The White Stripes
Get this album. The whole thing. Trust me.
"Promises" Eric Clapton
If I'm ever in a relationship, and I get in a huge fight with my girl, and I leave her place, get in my car, and just drive, unsure of where I'm going, I'm going to play this song in the car. Also, it would be helpful if it's 1978. That would be perfect.
"Save It For A Rainy Day" The Jayhawks
A nice country-ish ditty that starts, "Pretty little hairdo/Don't do what it used to". Sad. So I like it.
"We All Had A Real Good Time" Edgar Winter Group
The official song of "Jason Mulgrew 2005: Summer of Party." Anytime you have a man as gorgeous as this leading your group, I'm listening. But when you back it up with extraordinary musical talent and a song about getting messed up, you deserve a Nobel Prize.
"Paper Doll" Louis XIV
This song is cool, but it is so sexual in nature that it makes me blush. A female reader suggested it to me and I played it for my roommate Brian. After listening to it, he said, jokingly, "Any girl who likes that song is a slut." I wouldn't go that far, but I certainly wouldn't want my 17 year-old daughter singing it. Of course, I haven't spoken to or seen my daughter in about twelve years, so I don't think I'll hear her singing this. Unless she like, shows up or something, because Lord knows I'm not looking for her.
"See Me Feel Me" The Who (Live from Woodstock)
This is possibly the best easily accessible live performance of all-time. I say "easily accessible" because I'm not one of those guys who has dozens and dozens of recorded live shows, so I can't say how well this stacks up against Zeppelin's "In The Light" from 10/14/78 or Phish's "Antelope" from 2/11/94. It's a lot like how I have sex: it starts softly and beautifully, builds slowly to a stunning climax, and then abruptly ends. Only after sex I also have to climb back out the window, and this song doesn't do that in any way. But otherwise it's exactly the same.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
drink until you shit
Whenever my buddy David and I get together, we get messed up - big time. David's one of my oldest friends from Philly and whenever I go down there or he comes up to NYC, it gets ugly. Not "I got so drunk I threw up" ugly, but "I woke up in an Arizona desert without a left hand" ugly.
David and I lived together in North Wildwood, NJ (henceforth, "down the shore") the summer after we graduated high school. It was an awkward time for us both, but a good time nonetheless. Last summer, when we were both down the shore for the weekend, we had a "drinking tour." This consisted of the two of us getting black-out drunk while people looked on and shook their heads in disgust.
In two weeks, I'm going down the shore again. I'll be there from around July 3 to July 10. David and I have planned another "drinking tour" this year, which will again most likely be the two of us drinking way more than we should while people judge us. And again, I will probably tell all the girls I grew up with who rejected me back then because I was fat/borderline gay how much money I make. They in turn will be disgusted and feel sad for me. I am such a fucking ladykiller.
But this year, we're coming prepared and making it official. We're calling it the "Flood/Mulgrew 7th Annual Quasi-Celebrity Drinking Tour". The first five didn't actually happen and the sixth was last year, so naturally this is the seventh. The "quasi-celebrity" thing I don't really like, but hey, that's what I am. Our motto? "Drink until you shit." Simple, direct, effective.
And we have an official uniform. I have spent the last three hours perfecting this shirt and I have to say, I couldn't be happier with myself.
You should probably get yours now. It'll only be a matter of days before you see Paris wearing one. Or rather it'll only be a matter of days before you see me wearing one, in handcuffs going to jail because I broke into Paris' house and masturbated all over her kitchen floor. Whatever.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
I have completely crumpled under the pressure of the People thing and have been rendered impotent (blog-wise and with my bird). I find it impossible to be self-deprecating when a real-live magazine said I was "hot". Not only that, but I have grown to believe this magazine's proclamation and thus have adopted certain strange and diva-like tendencies, like eating only with disposable white utensils, spending two hours each morning in the bathroom grooming the hair on my scrotum, forcing all my friends to communicate with me in six words or less, and demanding my roommate Brian call me "Mr. Mulgrew" and my parents call me "Jesus II".
This has destroyed the blog and so I am officially retiring. When I started this in February of 2004, I had one goal in mind: to be in People. And now having achieved that goal, I am content to return to a life of anonymity, finally able to retreat to the rest stops of I-95, offering weary travelers handjobs in exchange for $2 for a McFlurry, all just as I had envisioned in my very first post. It has been a long and nauseous ride, one with with self-doubt and pity, and it is over. And I am hot. Thank you and god bless.
I'm kidding! God I am so silly. I couldn't stop this blog if I tried, as it's pretty much the one thing keeping me going right now. I'm just trying to get on your good side because I don't have much for you today. I know you're probably thinking, "The last time you wrote was on Friday - what the hell have you done since then?" Well, thank you for asking, I've done a lot. Being named one of the hottest bachelors by People magazine has changed my life dramatically and provided with all sorts of new and exciting things, like...um...nothing. It has actually done nothing. No interviews, no press, no invitations to parties in the Hollywood Hills, no nothing. As far as women: no random sex in bar bathrooms, no blowjobs in cabs, no making out with two chicks at once, nothing. You know what the highlight of my People experience has been in the lady department? This conversation from Friday night:
[Girl has just been convinced by my friends that I'm in the magazine - they didn't bring it to the bar with them like I asked]
Girl: "No offense, but why are you in it?"
Me: [sheepishly] "Um, I have a blog."
Girl: [confused] "What’s a blog?"
Me: [astounded, forgetting that 75% of the population doesn’t know what a blog is] "It’s like a diary, but on the internet."
Girl: [brutally unimpressed] "Oh."
[Four seconds of silence]
Me: "So do you want a drink?"
Girl: "I guess."
Needless to say, I did not score with her that night.
You know what the People thing has done? It's made me really uncomfortable when talking to family friends and older people about it.
Middle-aged woman friend of family: [looking at People issue] "Oh, you look so handsome Jason! And what's this about a 'blog?'"
Me: "Yeah, I have a website that people read, I guess."
Woman: [excited] "Oh, I can't wait to see it to see what all the fuss is about!"
Me: "Um, yeah, you might not want to read it. It's a little, um, raunchy."
Woman: "That's ok. I am sure I can handle it! I am so happy for you!"
Two hours later, I got a call from that woman's son, who I am friends with:
Him: "Yeah, my mom read the site. I don't think you're welcome in our house anymore."
Me: "I kinda figured that."
Him: "She actually started crying."Me: "I guess I'll talk to you later then."
Another upshot of this is the sizeable number of emails I have gotten from you all saying that I am a liar and everything I've written about on this site is a lie and everything I've even thought about is a lie because I am "normal" looking.
Friends, how can I explain this? Do you think People magazine would put me in a bachelor issue in my normal attire, which consists of a slightly pit-stained t-shirt, an old pair of jeans, and New Balance sneakers I've had since 2003? Do you think they'd set me up on a couch with one hand in a plate of nachos and the other covered in vanilla pudding? They were obviously trying very hard to make me look good. Those were not my clothes; they were brought to the shoot by a stylist (who, thankfully, listened to me when I said I wear a lot of dark colors to minimize my girth). That is not how I normally look; during the entirety of the four-hour shoot, a hair and make-up person was fussing with me, putting on make-up, fixing my hair, combing my beard, etc. And these reasons are precisely why I like that picture so much: because it is not an accurate representation of how I actually look, and is in fact much better than I look on a daily basis (or even when I go out scoping for high school girls). I am sorry that I am not as ugly as you had imagined, but if you want, drop me a line and we'll hang out. I promise to disappoint you. And, if you play your cards right, I will probably sexually assault you.
The good thing that has come out of this is the amazing ballbusting going on between my friends and I. See, I didn't know that the issue was going to be 50 "hottest" bachelors until I had it in my hands. All the while, I thought it was going to be something like "most eligible" bachelors. This made some sense to me. I'm nothing if not eligible, in the sense of "available because no one else will take me." But "hottest"? You have got to be fucking kidding me. My penis and testes have shriveled to one-eighth their actual size because I haven't used them in so long, and I'm the "hottest" anything? Yeah, right.
So when I showed my buddies the issue with the word "hottest" on the cover, all hell broke lose. Immediately I started calling myself one of the hottest men in America. Then I started saying I was ranked #2 on that list (behind Usher, and I claimed that he only got the #1 spot because of reverse-racism). By Saturday night, my friends were introducing me to their friends (guys, of course) as "the most physically fit man in the world according to People." Eventually, this has degenerated so much that I think we've established that I'm so hot that every time I ejaculate, $40,000 in gold doubloons spew forth from my penis.
And so, like I said on Friday, I am keeping it real and not letting this go to my head. Not because I don't want to, but because I simply can't. At least you can look at me and say, "Man, Mulgrew didn't change a bit when he got his break. He probably shouldn't have stolen that bus and run over that Chinese family, but I guess a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."
A new lover has been added (though don't tell him I said that, because he'd probably kick my ass). The byline description of Clublife says it best:
An online narrative of the life of a bouncer at two of New York's most popular nightclubs.A fascinating read. I dare you to read one post and not get hooked. So do it: Clublife.
And remember, please remember to visit all our lovers and friends when you have the time (and have read every fucking word on this site). Thank you.
Friday, June 17, 2005
people people people
1) Got to your nearest bodega, convenience store, or place that sells magazines
2) Buy the June 27th issue of People (available now)
3) Turn to page 102
4) Say “Holy shit – I read that guy’s blog!”
I can’t believe that I’m not joking when I write this, but I have been named one of People’s “50 Hottest Bachelors” of 2005.
(I'm not mentioned on the website - shockingly - but you can see the write-up here)
Now everyone, just stay calm. The important thing here is that no one freaks out. Because if you guys start freaking out, then I’m gonna start freaking out, and then something bad is going to happen, most likely involving fire, a mob of people, and my crotch.
Realizing that this would be a strange and confusing time for all of us, I have prepared an FAQ to help get us through this. Remember, deep breaths. We’re all in this together. Mostly.
Q: People Magazine? What the fuck?
A: I know. Ain’t that some shit?
Q: How did this happen?
A: What, you think you’re the only one who reads this blog? You think that I’m lying when I talk about how popular I am? You think I just woke up hungover on one Saturday morning, cheese fries crushed into my pillowcase and my hair, and said to myself, “You know what? I’m going to start calling myself an ‘Internet Quasi-Celebrity?’” Of course not.
(Well, that last one is actually true, but you get it)
The good people at People read this here blog. They emailed me and asked if I’d like to be a part of the issue. Of course I said, “You’re joking, right?” But they were actually serious. And so here we are, trying to piece together what went wrong.
Q: No, I mean it like, “How did this happen? You suck.”
A: Oh, sorry. No idea. I’ve thought a lot about it and I’ve come up with three possible scenarios:
1) Someone at People is trying to lose his/her job.
2) God, who as I’ve mentioned I’ve been feuding on and off with since 1994, is building me up as high as possible in order to bring me crashing, kicking, screaming, and swearing to the ground.
3) This issue is not actually “50 Hottest Bachelors”, but rather “50 Guys Who Like to Drink Beer in the Shower” or “50 Dudes Who Masturbate in Empty Parked Cars” and the “Hottest Bachelors” thing is just a typo.
Q: What’s with the quote? “Women in the Midwest want to marry me?” What the fuck?
A: You know what you’re telling me when you ask that question? Do you know what you’re saying? You’re saying, “I am not famous. Not at all.”
The interview was almost an hour long. That is a long-ass time. After about thirty minutes, I had no idea what I was saying or what the questions were. I started answering all questions with “I don’t know” or “I have no comment”. At the forty minute mark, I accused the interviewer of calling me a racist and for the rest of the interview put the phone down and did push-ups (or rather attempted to do push-ups). So yes, I may have mentioned that I have received a few marriage proposals from women in the Midwest. The exclamation points I can’t take credit for. I don’t usually speak in exclamation points, unless there are a lot of methamphetamines involved.
Q: And the picture? The excerpt? I mean, what gives here?
A: Look, again, you’re just showing me how un-famous you are. In regards to the excerpt, it’s People, so there are certain restrictions about what can and what can not be printed. 2000 words on how I got messed up on pills and beat up a cabbie or how I smoked some crazy shit and tried to fuck a refrigerator is just not gonna make the cut. I’m happy they were able to find something usable, since most of the site is not exactly PG-rated.
And the picture - I personally think I look like the sexiest man on earth, so I’m happy with it. It’s a good look that I’m giving. One that says, suavely, “Excuse me, but do you mind if I have that last nacho? No? Well then you should know that I am going to poison you.” Also, the photo shoot was a whopping four hours long. The good news is that I got to drink the whole time. Put me and a camera in a bar for four hours and magic happens. Put me and a pile of hot dogs in a bar for four hours and no one is going to walk away a winner.
And really, you’re being too negative. It’s People! Come on! Let’s be positive. Because really, it’s all downhill from here for me. Quickly, too.
[I do want to clear one thing up: I do NOT want to get married. I mean, eventually, sure, but the way the post was edited, and the line about how I get proposed to by women in the Midwest, makes it seem like I want to get married now. I do not. Not now. Later. Much later. Also, it's more than 10,000 hits. There is a difference between "hits" and "unique visitors", but I don't want to get into that now. Thank you.]
Q: Ok, ok. So what happens now?
A: As I type this, the “I was in People Magazine. Seriously.” t-shirts are being printed. My friends have been instructed to cut the page out and carry it in their wallets at all times, so that when we are at bars they can pull it out in front of women and I can act bashful and say things like, “Brian, come on. Put it away. [sighing] Ok, yes, I was in People. Not a big deal. [turning to girl in group with lowest self-esteem] So what do you do again? Do you mind if I smell your hair? It sure looks pretty. Come on – let’s just duck into that corner so I can show you my penis.”
In the more immediate future, my friends and I are going to have a party tonight because of this. I’m going to guess that this “party” will consist of me, my roommate Brian, and my friend Jeremy sitting in a booth at a bar, sharing pitchers of Bud, talking about how we should talk to girls about the “Bachelor” thing. Then after about five hours, I’ll say I have to poop and want to go home, we’ll get some pizza, and call it a night. So you can see that I’m keeping it real and not letting my new-found/finally-vindicated celebrity go to my head.
And so I hope this hastily-crafted-while-mildly-intoxicated FAQ answered some of your questions. We’re going to make it. I promise.
I’ll tell you though...why do I feel like this story is going to end with me a few years from now, drinking a Colt 45 out of paper bag in tattered clothes, sitting on a park bench, eyeing little girls with bad intent, screaming, “I was in fucking People Magazine! I was one of the top bachelors of 2005, god damn it! People Magazine! Also I am the second son of the Virgin Mary!” before freaking out and throwing rotten fruit at a passing cars and stray dogs.
We’ll just have to wait and see I guess.
[Many thanks to Joyce, Jessica, and Laura for putting up with my diva-esque tendencies and endless questions and Ben, Chris, Naima, and Naomi for making me feel beautiful and drunk.]
Thursday, June 16, 2005
true love and work
True love is dead. We all can pretty much agree on that, right? I mean, it just doesn’t happen like it used to. Stories of love told by old folks always go something like:
- “I saw her from across the room and I knew she was the woman I was going to spend the rest of my life with. We were wed two weeks later and have been together sixty-five years.”But for people my age, it just doesn’t work that way. I wonder what stories of love the people of my generation will tell our grandkids. I think it’ll be closer to:
- “He was the dreamiest man I had ever seen. When I saw him working at the shipyard, I knew instantly he was the man for me. Ten years later, we had eleven children.”
- “I was wounded in combat in France in 1944 and on my first day out of the hospital I met this beautiful French girl. That night, we walked along the Seine and I proposed on the spot. That was seventy-two years ago.” (Editor’s Note: this quote will be said in the year 2016)
- “I walked out of Fulton Hall and on the bench in the quad I saw a young man reading Tennyson’s ‘Holy Grail’ and I just felt it. We were married ten minutes later and haven’t spent a night apart in fifty-three years.”
- “I had just done a keg stand when I went to the bathroom. I barged in, not realizing anyone was in there, and caught your grandmother pissing. She called me a dick, but two hours later she was giving me a blowjob in my roommate Todd’s bed. It was fucking awesome.”The sad thing is that the people of my generation still hope for this no longer existent true love. My friends and I have cast aside countless relationships for the most trivial reasons because we weren’t convinced the girl was “the one” (this is not limited to men; women do this too - I just don't know any women and thus can't use them as examples). Spoiled as we are, rather than working on the relationship or giving it a real chance because we didn’t immediately feel that “spark”, we ended the whole thing. I am admittedly guilty of this as well. Note to self: just because a girl has an above-average amount of arm hair or abnormally large feet or maybe one time ran over a kid does not mean that she can’t be perfect for you.
- “I was at Sutton Place at 52nd & 2nd. Your grandfather was there, button-down shirt open, hair perfectly gelled. He had just done three SoCo & lime shots in a row and punched the bouncer in the face. I fucked him on the LIRR that night. He didn’t call me for two months, but when he eventually did, we started dating. And you know the rest.”
- “Your grandfather played bass in a pseudo-retro trash band called ‘The Kings of Fuck and Ennui.’ I saw him on stage and loved his $80 vintage t-shirt and his hair, which looked like it had been cut by a monkey that had been badly beaten. I wanted him so much that when he told me I first had to kiss a girl on the mouth, I did it. Four times. It was real love.”
- “I was on Spring Break in Cancun when I did a half dozen ice luges and fell down a flight of stairs. I didn’t remember hooking up with your grandmother until six weeks later when she emailed me and told me she thought she was pregnant. Thank god we escaped that one! High five!”
Well, I’m writing this to tell you all that I am officially done. I don’t care about finding “true love” or “the one” because that shit is just too hard. As I get older, I’m becoming more efficient and pragmatic. I no longer have time for grandiose fantasies of love and happiness. When someone dreams of their soulmate, they envision a person that is the sum of a number of desirable traits: a short blond chick who loves Indian food, Yo La Tengo, and has tattoos; an athletic redhead who’s into camping and candle-making and can quote “Top Gun” line for line; a curvy brunette who loves dogs, the rain and going to the beach; etc.
But I’m through. Realizing it ain’t happening for me in the soulmate department any time soon, I’m refining my search for “the one” so that it no longer involves a collection of desirable traits wrapped in one person, but rather on one single determining characteristic that I have deemed more important than all the others: profession.
I want to say right away that this is not about money. I have plenty of money (lie) and I plan on having plenty of money in life (another lie). At the very least, I plan on not spending all the money I earn on onion rings, cheap vodka, and those crane machines where the crane dips into the pile of stuffed animals and you have to try to get one of the stuffed animals in the claws of the crane (biggest lie of all). No sir. Not me.
But profession is most important because it is the one trait that can be most useful to me. If I’m going to pick just one characteristic in a soulmate to make such an important decision, why not pick the one that would be most helpful to me? Besides, things like looks and personality really don’t matter to me anymore. I have resigned myself to the fact that I’m going to marry a troll who is a total bitch and throws lit matches at me in my sleep. So if I’m going to marry this pyromaniac troll, she might as well be a doctor and get me drugs easily.
And that brings us to the Top 5 Most Desirable Professions in a Soulmate for yours truly, Jason Michael Joseph Patrick Aloysius Elizabeth Mulgrew. Remember, all of you have to do is have one of these jobs and all this - [running hands up and down body, stopping at crotch, simulating masturbation, stopping, running hands up and down body again] - can be yours.
You probably could have guessed this one. In addition to being borderline addicted to prescription drugs (anti-anxiety meds; sleeping pills; painkillers; muscle relaxers; anything oval, round, white, off-white, blue, or multi-colored; etc), I am a tremendous hypochondriac. The double whammy of having someone to prescribe me all the drugs I want for the rest of my life and the luxury of being calmed by a certified professional when I wake in the middle of the night convinced that I have cholera makes doctor an easy choice for most desirable profession for my soulmate.
Simply put, I break a lot of laws. I don’t know how it happens, but it does. Some people are good at sports, some can draw beautiful pictures, some have a knack for languages; I have a knack for getting drunk and starting a garbage fires or throwing trash cans through windows. It’s just my little cross to bear.
Having a lawyer for a wife would save me a lot of money on legal expenses and make my life better in the big picture. Whereas before if I were on the subway and wanted to punch someone reading the paper, I’d think, “I don’t know – public defenders suck and getting a lawyer’s gonna cost me at least $400, so I’d better not do it”, if I were married to a lawyer I’d think, “Fuck punching this asshole – I’m gonna beat him with my sneaker! That’s assault with a deadly weapon and I don’t give a shit - my wife’s a lawyer!” The result: fun times for everyone. Except the guy I beat with my sneaker, but he was asking for it anyway.
You know, I originally thought that psychiatrist would be good because I may have some slight mental problems that could use sorting out, but on second thought, I don’t think having a psychiatrist wife is a good idea. I’m pretty impressionable and I don’t want my spouse manipulating me with psychobabble. She can do that with sex, like normal couples.
Not as high on the list as you thought, eh? The reason is simple. I love food as much as the next fat guy, but I can pick up the phone and for $25 get a top of the line chicken parm delivered to my door. You can’t just dial a number and get cheap and effective legal advice or call and have a shady Puerto Rican guy named “3” come to your house with drugs and pills (wait, scratch that second one).
The benefits of having a chef for a wife are pretty obvious. I’m actually getting kinda randy just thinking about all the culinary delights that I would enjoy. I have to say though that I think our relationship would ultimately be strained if my chef/wife ever got lazy (“Frosted Flakes for breakfast? Fucking Frosted Flakes? What happened to crepes filled with poached eggs, sautéed baby spinach and prosciutto or pancakes flambéed with bananas and nutella? You know what, go to your mother’s! I need some alone time!”)
Contrary to what you may have read on the internet or heard on “Extra”, I do have a penis and testicles (barely). However, that is about where my manliness ends. The list of things I'm afraid of includes but is not limited to: bugs, thunder, ceiling fans, ghosts, loud-ringing telephones, darkness, mirrors, vacuum cleaners, needles, dishwashers, red things, flushing toilets, creaking noises, anything elastic, blenders, anything green, and light.
You can't put a price on the piece of mind that would come with being married to a cop. Sure, you'd constantly be worried about her getting harmed while on duty, but let's focus on the positives here, ok? Anytime I saw a waterbug or thought I heard a burglar or there was loud thunder, I could turn to my cop wife and be comforted knowing that she has a gun and knows how to use it. Two other bonuses: the obvious sexual fantasies ("Let's pretend I'm Abner Louima, baby! And do NOT be gentle!") and like being married to a lawyer, being married to a cop gives me certain license with my penchant for crime.
Cab Driver – I take a lot of cabs. A discount would be nice.
Librarian – I don’t know...something about the nerdiness and all those sexy books just do it for me. Bonus points if glasses on a chain are involved.
Big Cat Trainer – Not much is sexier than a woman and a big cat. Such beautiful, sexual creatures (the cats, not women).
Teacher – Just so during sex I can say, “Was this in the lesson plan? Huh? Who’s teaching who now? Come on – what’s the state capital of Vermont? Montpelier, bitch! Montpelier!!!”
Lifeguard – I don’t swim, but I imagine if I did this would be very helpful.
[Please be advised that I realize that bartender is not on this list. Any combination of me and someone who can get me free booze is not a good idea and would only result in complete destruction of myself, the woman, and everything in a 300 mile radius. I don't usually do this, but I'm showing some restraint here and I'd like your support. Thank you.]
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
the greatest sunburn in the history of human existence
Sunday night at 2 in the morning I sat naked on the edge of my tub, cold water pouring out of the showerhead, spraying the tub but not my gorgeous nude body, applying aloe vera lotion to large portions of myself.
Two hours later in my bedroom, I woke up, turned to my side, and deftly peed into an empty gatorade bottle that I had stationed next to the bed strictly for this reason.
My name is Jason Mulgrew. And I am the biggest asshole on earth.
It started on Friday night. I got a call from some friends who were going down the shore. They were going to Sea Girt, New Jersey for Friday night and Saturday day, returning to the city on Saturday evening. They had room in the car and the house and so asked if I wanted to tag along.
Since I have named this summer “2005: Summer of Party”, I accepted. What better way to spread the party that is going on in my head and my pants 24 hours a day than by taking it to the shore? I can think of none.
And so off we went. Friday night looked promising. Spirits were high as we ate at a restaurant by the beach. We sat outdoors and took in the majesty that is the Jersey Shore, in this case manifested by a nearby table of Jersey guidos in their late-twenties screaming and yelling for two hours about either their college baseball team or their work softball team (not sure which and not sure which would be sadder) and saying things like, “Tonight we party old school!” and “Tonight’s the night boys!” If they hadn’t been complete meatheads with biceps the size of my thighs, I would have turned and told them they were the saddest group of assholes I’d ever seen. Instead, I just ate and tried to get my buddy Dean drunk enough to say something to them, but it didn't work. Stupid "I can't drink - I'm a recovering alcoholic" Dean.
Not so surprisingly, I was a little gluttonous. I got the crab cake appetizer (the best I’ve ever had) and the filet mignon entrée, but I also shared some fried calamari with my friend Abby. And by “shared” I mean “she watched while I ate 95% of the calamari, all the while making grunting and/or sexual noises, and one time when I thought she was reaching for one of my crab cakes I poked her in the arm with my fork and said, ‘If you try that again, I will fucking burn you.’”
After dinner, we went back to the house for some beers. We had huge plans to hit up some nearby bars, but I added a six pack of Corona to the sea and land creatures fighting it out in my belly and passed the f out. Full, with a nice buzz, feeling good in the sea air, it was probably the best sleep I’ve had in three months.
The next morning we all awoke early and went to the beach. And this is where the wheels came off.
I don’t like the beach, for three main reasons:
1) I am chubby
2) I have hair on my chest, belly, shoulders, back, etc (think a carpet with eyes, arms and a penis like a light switch)
3) I burn very, very easily
The beach is no place for me to be, unless it’s at night and I’m there with an unsuspecting French-Canadian girl who I’ve just told I’m a doctor who writes poetry and owns horses and who can also bench press 250 pounds. On this particular occasion, there was no unsuspecting French Canadian girl. And it was daytime. And so there was sunlight. Brutal, brutal sunlight.
The last time I was on the beach was last August, when I went to the Caribbean to attend my cousin Lindsay’s wedding and to drink 100 pina coladas in five days. I hoped to get some color while I was there, but I so lathered myself up with sunblock that I was the only person in history to return from a vacation in the Caribbean paler than when he left.
With this memory still fresh in my mind, when we went to the beach on Saturday morning I was determined more than ever to get some color. Of course, “color” to someone like me (of Irish and Polish ancestry) means “a deep red giving way to a bright pink before returning to printer-paper white.” Still, that’s better than nothing, so there was no sunscreen for me that day.
Not a good move (part one).
I of course had my shirt on, but I didn’t have any “beach” t-shirts, so instead of something light I was wearing a navy blue t-shirt, basically saying to the sun, “Hey, asshole! Down here, you cock sucker!” I was also wearing navy blue shorts, so I made a great target.
Of course I didn’t realize this at the time. I kept complaining that I didn’t think I was getting any color, that I didn’t need any sunscreen because “look – I got nothing”, that I was fine. Boy was I wrong.
On the way back to the city, I began to feel uncomfortable. First it started as some excess warmth, but by the time I got back to my place, it felt like my whole body was on fire. I didn’t realize how bad it was until I opened the door to my apartment and my roommate Brian said, “Holy shit! Did you fall into a vat of red paint or are you just having a heart attack?” Crap, crap, crap.
I didn’t know what to do. I made a quick jaunt to the nearest pharmacy to pick up some aloe vera and other elixirs that though expensive would do nothing for the pain. I put the lotion all over my body and realized I faced a decision: I could stay in, watch a movie, and obsess about the pain that was slowly taking control of my body. Or I could go out, get drunk, and forget about the pain. I chose the latter.
Not a good move (part two).
What I knew but decided not to dwell on was that alcohol slows the body’s cooling processes. I was too wrapped up thinking, “Yes, that’s what I’ll do! I’ll get drunk and everything will be better! Everything is better when you’re drunk! God I am so fucking smart! I want to have sex right now! With a woman! Or an effeminate man! I don’t even care anymore! What time is it! I want a cheesesteak!”
And so I went out and got drunk. I’m normally a big sweaty guy, but wrapping my sunburned areas in a shirt and shoes, socks and pants, and then throwing a dozen or so beers into the equation didn’t work out like I hoped it would. Instead of taking my mind of the sunburn, I was closer to "heat stroke" than I was "painlessness". The good news is that for the first time in my life I felt attractive; everywhere I walked in the bar, people were checking me out. Of course, they weren’t thinking “He’s hot!” but rather “That guy should go to a hospital!”, but hey, getting checked out is getting checked out.
I passed out hard on Saturday night and woke up Sunday in an obscene amount of pain. It wasn’t just the sunburn that was bothering me, but I found out that I had burned my feet and legs so badly that they had swollen to three times their normal size and I couldn’t put any pressure on them. I was sunburned so bad that I couldn’t fucking walk. Son of a bitch.
And so Sunday I was essentially bedridden. Having been badly sunburned every summer since birth, I could deal with the sunburn pain. But this new swollen feet/ankles/shins thing completely threw me for a loop. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I couldn't walk. Ok, well I guess I am exaggerating, because I could walk, but it was very difficult and painful. All day Sunday I didn't leave my apartment or put on shoes, and moved only to pee, poop, or eat. Otherwise, I stayed in bed in and cursed myself for being such a moron. Then I opened by window and started shouting at all the Chinese people and tourists trolling my neighborhood of Little Italy. Then someone threw a rock at my window, so I stopped and took a nap.
Monday was much of the same. I woke up in the morning and tried to get ready for work, but it looked and felt like I had two broken ankles. So I worked from home, which isn't as cool as it sounds. I thought working from home would entail sitting around eating cereal, watching Sportscenter for three hours, and then taking an erotic bath. Not so. I didn't leave my apartment and didn't shower, but I was indeed working. So that made me feel good about myself. I guess.
But today I made it in. After two straight days of staying inside, not showering, lathering my body with aloe vera and wrapping my ankles in hobo ice packs (crushed ice in sandwich bags wrapped in a dish towels held together by scotch tape), I have regained some of my mobility. Since I'm in terrible shape and I'm lazy, I imagine I won't be fully recovered until around Christmas, but them's the breaks.
And so hear me out: wear sunscreen at the beach. For the love of god, cake it on yourself so that you don't burn. Sure, I've learned a lot about myself in the past two days (I can easily pee into a gatorade bottle while lying in bed, I will make a great shut-in if I ever make it to old age, I can watch the History Channel and eat pretzel sticks dipped in nutella for up to four hours at a time without moving anything but my arms), but if given the opportunity again, I would definitely have put on sunblock. I have no problem taking the fall for you so that you might learn an important lesson, but if you ignore me and get a sunburn, I will be crushed. So please, do it for me. I feel like I should spend the next two or three days touring grade schools, speaking to little kids, shouting, "Do you see what happened to me! Look at me! I am a monster! [softer] So please wear sunscreen. And stay in school. Now who wants to go out to Uncle Jason's van for some skittles? Hmmm? Hmmmm? Not you - you're too chubby. How about you, young man? You look like you play sports!"
Friday, June 10, 2005
eotw, sex huts, music
I haven't done an "Email of the Week" in a while. Partially because of the laziness, but partially because there haven't been many awe-inspiring emails. That is, until Elliott (who is a girl) from Williamsburg, Brooklyn wrote me with a simple question:
how do I get 2 straight guys to kiss each other? All the lines that have worked to get me to kiss other girls don't work on them, even telling them that the most heterosexual thing that they could do is tongue wrestle. (you know, "if you're not gay, why don't you just kiss him?") I am stumped. I turn to you not just because I know you have yearned to dabble in this practice, but because you seem to have the kind of wily, twisted mind that can help me think of a perfect strategy to get my attractive, straight male friends to kiss. please advise.Wait, what? Let me read that email over again...
how do I get 2 straight guys to kiss each other?...I turn to you not just because I know you have yearned to dabble in this practice...Ok, I should probably clear something up. I do not want to make out with any guys. I know that I joke about it sometimes, but I do so only for the sake of tasteless humor. And you should know by now that this whole site is made-up anyways. My real name is Steve Keller and I'm a 34 year-old web designer/stay-at-home dad in Syracuse, New York. If we're being honest, we should be totally honest.
And now back to the question. This is a tough one. To be honest, I would definitely make out with a dude - for a million dollars. That's a no-brainer. I can deal with five seconds of man make-out because I'd know that six seconds later, I'd have a million dollars, which I would promptly spend in large increments over the next twelve hours on Snickers bars, iced tea, vodka, and cigarettes (I don't smoke, but I'd imagine I'd pick it up after having to kiss a guy).
But aside from the million dollars (or another sizeable sum of money), I'm not going to do it. It just wouldn't happen for me. However, since I thought it was an interesting question, I posed it to a half dozen or so of my straight guy friends. But I clarified one thing: I imagine that Elliott is not a woman of unlimited resources. She is a girl, at a bar, looking to get two of her "attractive, straight male friends" to kiss. Therefore, the bait to make out with another dude couldn't be a million dollars or a sixty-foot yacht or a home in the Caribbean. It had to be something reasonable, something that Elliot, as a girl, in a bar, could offer. And so I asked, is there any reasonable circumstance in which you would make out with a dude?
The first response I got said, "Don't ever email me again. Seriously." Some might think this response is homophobic, but I disagree. I think it's a perfectly normal way to react to your friend sending you an email at work at 10:30 on a Monday morning asking if you'd make out with a guy.
But then the replies started coming in. One guy said, "I would do anything for $100 a second that doesn't involve another man's wee-wee." Another guy admitted that though he's a "no", he'd "kiss a hot dude a lot faster than an ugly one." The other replies were: no, no, no way, no.
So I wasn't getting much info from my straight friends. Because we here at jasonmulgrew.com are committed to "surrounding" a story, I decided to go to two of my gay male friends about this, asking them if they thought that two straight guys could be cajoled into kissing for a reasonable bait. They both answered a resounding "yes". Hmmmm...
I guess it's my job to take the responses from my straight and male friends, analyze them, and give Elliott a response. So here goes: I got nothing for you. In my heart of heterosexual hearts, I do not believe that I, or any other straight guy, would kiss another guy. Getting very drunk gives a guy license to do many things that he normally wouldn't do, like talk to an attractive girl, start a fight with a bigger guy, or in my case, fall down a flight of stairs. But there are certain things that are always off limits, and for straight guys, kissing another guy has gotta be pretty high on that list.
I'm not saying it doesn't happen, because it undoubtedly does. But I think that if it does happen, the guys involved have to already be predisposed to it. I call to your attention the Kinsey Scale, which we previously discussed last summer. Dr. Kinsey developed a scale, numbered 0 (exclusively heterosexual) to 6 (exclusively homosexual) and found that less than 4% of people fit either of these extremes. I contend that any straight guy who engages in make-out shenanigans with another guy, though while titularly straight, is more like a 2 on this scale. Of course there is nothing wrong with this, as our motto here at jasonmulgrew.com is "when you're judgin', you're not lovin'", but them's my two cents.
Having said all this, Elliott, you are a master negotiator and you drive a hard bargain. $60 - name the time and the place. I'll knock it down to $40 if he looks like Orlando Bloom or is over 6'3". See you then.
Great article here. You have to love Germany for two things: 1) its efficiency and 2) its legalized prostitution. It also get bonus points for its meat products and free usage of poo in porno films.
So many great things to touch on, but we'll try to limit it to four things, lest I continue writing about and expanding upon this for the next 36 hours:
1) I still can't get my mind around how men will be able to get drunk at a game and go fuck a woman in a hut (for a small fee). I don't even have a joke here because my mind is blown. Imagine...
Guy #1: "What are you doing tonight?"
Guy #2: "I'm going to the Phils game and then I'll catch a handjob."
Guy #1: "Nice. Sara and I did that last week, but she didn't get the handy obviously."
Guy #2: "Obviously. They do a good job with those sex huts in the parking lot, don't they?"
Guy #1: "They are excellent."
2) This point comes courtesy of my buddy Joe, who sent me the article:
I love the fact about how many pro's [prostitutes] are going to converge on the city for the world cup. Who are the experts and how do they arrive at the number of migrant hookers? What is the logic behind that figure and how gross is the "Sex Tent City" going to be?Couldn't agree more. Was this cut out of the article?
"Dr. Julius Rumphel, Professor of Migratory Prostitution Studies at Cologne University, expects an incredible convergence of prostitutes in the city. 'Early reports have told us that prostitutes may be coming from as far as Sub-Saharan Africa and Southeast Asia,' he says. 'Myself and three of my finest graduate students have been crunching numbers and analyzing trends and we believe around 40,000 ladies of the night will come for the World Cup to have sex with strangers for money. And I, for one, can't wait!'"3) I wonder if any of these sex huts are available for full-time occupation.
[two guys at BBQ]
Guy #1: "So where are you living these days?"
Guy #2: "You know, I just moved into a sex hut at Graham and 9th, and I gotta say, I love it."
Guy #1: "Really, I've heard mixed reviews about them."
Guy #2: "Well, it's not the biggest place, but it's got everything I need: a condom machine, a snack bar, enough space for my car, and a place to act out all of my fantasies anonymously in a sheltered area."
Guy #1: "That sounds pretty good. My buddy at work has been trying to get one for a few months now. How did you do it?"
Guy #2: "Well, I knew a guy."
Guy #1: "Isn't that always how it goes?"
Guy #2: "I'll drink to that!"
4) The last line is my favorite, I think:
"That said there will always be those who want to go behind a bush, under a bridge or into the woods."Because really, you have not lived until you have had troll sex under a bridge with a prostitute.
I mean, unreal.
“In Ohio” Joseph Arthur
Apparently, this guy is good. All I know is that this is the best song on his album and it's about 45 seconds long. Heck of a song though...it makes me want to sit and watch the rain and cry.
“Cold Sweat” James Brown
The Godfather sings, “I don’t care about your past/I just want our love to last.” Not me, sister. I certainly care about your past. So if you’ve dated any of the Portland Trailblazers or are intimately familiar with the term “bukkake”, please tell me now so we don’t waste each other’s time. Thank you.
“A Conspiracy” The Black Crowes
After hearing this song, I feel like Chris Robinson must be so exhausted after singing it that he has to take a nap. Or maybe just get high and have sex with his gorgeous wife. Whichever.
“Police on My Back” The Clash
I know I've written about this song before, but if you put this on and ten seconds later you're not beating the shit out of someone, then you have no soul. Or you're just deaf and can't hear the song. Whichever.
“Be My Number Two” Joe Jackson
Oh my god! "Number two" means poo! This is hilarious!
It's a shame that I'm not mature enough to get through this song with laughing so hard that I pee myself a little, because it's a lovely song. Another Joe Jackson song while we're at it...
“I’m The Man” Joe Jackson
Story time: I was in one and half bands in college. I wasn't very serious about it, because I wasn't very good. I got my first guitar when I was 13, for Christmas in 1992. I picked it up very quickly, but I was as good as I was ever going to get in about 1995. I played a bunch in college, but I never hung out with other musicians (musicians tend to be very sucky people). Instead, for most of college I played guitar for my roommates and friends and we made up retarded songs about retarded things. Our biggest hits were probably "Masturbation", "Eviction", "Nelson", "Later Powers", "Fucked Up For The Weekend" and our last hit "God Damn It (It's Not My Fault)", which had the Dylan-esque chorus of "It's not my fault I like to drink/It's not my fault I like to puke some".
But then I found out that one of my roommates was a drummer. Another friend of ours was this jacked dude who was a kick-ass singer. We picked up a guitar player (I would play bass) and suddenly we had ourselves a band, Royce. It was supposed to be pronounced "Hoyce", after the Brazilian street fighter Royce Gracie, but no one picked up on that and pronounced the "R" anyway. And for the record, I had very little input on the name; my suggestions of "Jason Mulgrew and The Skullcaps", "Jason Mulgrew and What the Fuck?" and "Jason Mulgrew Presents Jason Mulgrew and Three Other Guys" were all shot down. Assholes.
We played mostly covers, hard rocks ones by Rage, Van Halen, Zeppelin, Tool, on campus and at bars around town. We were terrible and the music was bad, but we had fun, got to drink for free, always packed the places we played, and one time after a show at Middlebury College in Vermont I got a blowjob in the woods. So all in all, good stuff.
After college, I still played, but much less so. I didn't know any other people who were interested in being in a band in NYC, and NYC is a tough place to be for anyone trying to start a band for fun but not seriously looking to "go for it". At the behest of my buddy Mike, who is far and away the most gifted musician I've ever been around, I took a week off in the summer of 2002 to go to DC to record a four song demo with him.
The results were nearly disastrous. I crashed at Mike's place and he had cats, which I am deathly allergic to. I spent the week living off booze, allergy pills, and since I was broke, very little food. Mike, who sort of has that "disturbed genius" thing going, would spend hours and hours working on the music, while I took naps and watch "The Price is Right". Conflict ensued.
We finally finished the demo and I was unhappy with it. My allergies to the cats killed my voice (I told you guys I have a voice like an angel), so I sounded terrible. The music was ok, but I left before it was totally finished and Mike put the final touches on it. Good, but not what I would have done. This demo still exists, and I am sure it will surface when I am famous and will completely destroy any career I might have.
After that incident, I have been playing music less and less. I still enjoy music, and sure, every once in a while I'll pick up the guitar and write a song about a particularly delicious slice of pizza, but I feel like since I'm not good enough to be serious about it, I'm, well, not that serious about it.
With the recent move from a large place to a medium place, I now have a smaller bedroom. Still, crammed in this bedroom, I have four guitars, a keyboard, a mic and stand, a four-track, and a giant amp. Though I haven't seriously used this stuff in a while, I've had it in NYC with me all the time. It dawned on me finally that I'm going to have to get rid of it. I just don't have the room and I don't use it enough to keep all this stuff in my room. Sad.
But now, I'm not so sure anymore. This song makes me want to start playing seriously again. It's perfect: it's energetic but easy to play, and totally something I could get up in front of people and rock out to. I feel like if I were messed up enough, I'd drag my roommate Brian out into the middle of the street to play this live with me. I don't particularly care for the lyrics, but that wouldn't matter in our impromptu live performance, since most of the people in my neighborhood don't speak English anyway.
So download it. I like it. You might not. Whatever. This is America.
(Thanks to my buddy Griff for recommending it to me)
(And have a good weekend)
(Everyone, not just Griff)
Thursday, June 09, 2005
back or something
I wrote recently that because of my move downtown, where I lived for two years before moving to the Upper East Side in June of '04, I am "back". If the events of this past week and a half are any indication, I most certainly am back. And I will probably be dead within two weeks, tops.
In many ways, living in the Upper East Side was like going to prison. I feel like I was "away" for a year, kinda like when my Uncle Teddy was "away" for a year when he "borrowed" a car that happened to belong to a retired cop. Sure, I saw my friends occasionally, but for the most part I had minimal contact with them, mostly in the form of emails or telephone calls. I hung out 90% of the time with my roommates (in our analogy, my cellmates) and we sort of kept to ourselves. None of our friends ever came up to visit us or to go out in our neighborhood, and I don't blame them. It sucked up there. It was a long, lonely year.
[I'm making it sound like we never went out, when of course we did go out, but bear with me here...]
But now...oh boy. Like an inmate who's just been paroled, I'm out and fucking loving it. I've been going out a lot, meeting up with people, having drinks, trying to re-establish the friendships I had before "going away". Sadly, many of my friends have left NYC, having gone to law school or to grad school, having returned to their hometowns, etc. But what's left is a good group of core people, friends of mine from college or from Philly, who are slowly but surely becoming "New Yorkers".
And this is who I'm trying to get back in with. The BBQ this past Saturday was one example. I also went out Tuesday night (briefly) and last night. Tonight I have a party to go to (though not sure if I'll make it, as I'm hurting - more on this later). And then the weekend, well, it's on this weekend. So it's official: fathers, lock up your daughters. Jason Mulgrew, 200+ pounds of maniac and fury, is on the prowl. May God have mercy on you.
Last night, I met up with my friend Holly. Holly is a very sweet girl. I will say right away that this was not a romantic rendezvous; Holly has a boyfriend, Steve, who I've met on several occasions and is a good guy. Also, she has very good self-esteem, so I wouldn't stand a chance anyway.
We meet up at some Asian fusion place around Union Square for some drinks. This wasn't our first choice. We walked around for a bit, but everything was packed and it was so hot that Holly could see that I was growing deceased before her eyes, so we plopped down at the nearest place that served booze.
And we got good and drunk. Nothing crazy. I expected to be there for an hour or so, but we were there almost four hours. Several times the bartender came over to Holly and I and asked, "More?" And several times, we both agreed that we'd have "just one more."
Has any phrase been abused quite the way that "just one more" has? If we did a Top Ten Lies That I Tell On A Weekly Basis, it'd go:
1) "I'll have just one more."
2) "Seriously, this is my last one."
3) "Everything is under control."
4) TIE: "I know exactly what you're talking about" and "I did that already"
5) "All the stuff I write about is made up."
6) "I would never drive your truck around drunk looking for hookers, Dad. The police are mistaken."
7) "I didn't get your email/call/message."
8) "It's good to hang out with again."
9) "The things I appreciate most in a woman are confidence, intellect, and top-notch self-esteem."
10) "I think men should take responsibility in terms of birth control."
At any rate, after having about six "last ones", Holly and I parted ways, and I began my stumble back downtown. Before we go any further, I need to take a short but necessary detour to explain my actions that followed. If you are not already familiar with it, allow me to introduce you to one of the most important things in my life: Cold Stone Creamery.
Cold Stone Creamery is a franchise of ice cream shops. What makes Cold Stone different from Baskin Robbins or Ben & Jerry's or any other ice cream shop is that the customer can create his own ice cream concoction. Cold Stone has several base flavors of ice cream, like Sweet Cream, Cake Batter, and White Chocolate, in addition to your standards. Then, they have all sorts of magical mix-ins, everything from Butterfingers and M&M's to Apple Pie filling and Pineapple to Brownies and Oreos. The customer picks a flavor ice cream, picks the mix-ins, the creation is slopped on a large piece of granite (hence the "cold stone") and mixed by an overly chipper professional. The result? Deliciousness you can not possibly fathom.
Cold Stone is so good that if there is not one near you, I suggest you either start your own franchise or move. I guarantee that if you do this, you will send me an email in a month saying, "Jason, you changed my life by introducing me to Cold Stone. I am coming to your home to blow the shit out of you. Thank you."
I am completely getting off topic here (as I am wont to do when speaking about ice cream), but the one thing that I miss about living in the Upper East Side was the nearby Cold Stone. It brought me and my belly hours of enjoyment, as I sampled almost every creation possible. No Cold Stone and no Taco Bell are two of the biggest drags about my new place. And yes ladies, I am single.
So last night when I left Holly, full of Harp and Tsingtao, I hopped a cab. I was drunker than I should have been because I didn't eat dinner. I was thinking about getting Italian food when HOLY SHIT - STOP THE CAB!
Lo and behold, a Cold Stone Creamery has just opened up near my neighborhood. Joy. I threw a fiver at the cabbie, hopped out, and treated myself to 16 ounces of my favorite mix: cake batter ice cream, oreos, and whipped cream. Again, joy.
Then I had to get another cab, because I wasn't that close to my apartment. In retrospect, sure, this is a little embarrassing. Hopping out of cab drunk to get an enormous pile of ice cream isn't something I'm especially proud of. But that doesn't mean it wasn't the best decision I've made in the last three or four months.
So I got another cab and headed back to my place. I didn't think it'd be a good idea to go to bed having consumed twelve beers and a huge bowl of ice cream, so I got out of the cab a few blocks from my apartment and got some pizza (two slices to be exact). And so there I was: drunk and stumbling through the streets of Little Italy, one hand holding a an overflowing sundae, the other holding two slices of pizza, sweating through my work clothes, as tourists dining on "authentic" Italian cuisine looked at me with a mixture pity and horror. Again ladies, all this can be yours.
I got home, wolfed down the pizza and ice cream, and passed the fuck out. At around 2am, I woke up feeling like I was being stabbed in the stomach. Unbeknownst to me, pizza, beer, and ice cream don't mix too well, and so I spent the next twenty minutes or so throwing up most of my vital organs and the contents of my stomach (pizza, beer, ice cream, a woman's size 11 high-heeled shoe, seven rubber bands, an intact tube of toothpaste, and the fender of a '89 Cutlass Supreme) . I felt better after I was done. That is, until around 4am, when I woke up and did the same thing. I went back to bed, but woke up again at 6am. I have been up since. Sweet.
The bad news is that today is not a good day for me. Not at all. The good news is that, yes Virginia, I am most certainly back. And I feel stronger. Unlike the hangover on Sunday, I feel like I'm getting my body back into optimal drinking shape. And when that happens, well, um, well nothing really happens. I just kinda drink beer and eat a lot. But it's fun, so screw you.
And now if you'll excuse, I have to take my hourly dosage of Pepto and Bayer. Thank you for listening, and have a wonderful day. And seriously, get some Cold Stone. So, so good.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
i know, i know
I know you've read it before, but you can see it a little differently here.
Also, in my profile there is a picture of my former mustache, which was super sweet while it lasted.
I don't care if you don't read it, but rank it well please (at the bottom). This means nothing (i.e. I don't get any money or a free sandwich or anything) but it helps with my self-esteem.
Thank you. And if you want to see the original version, you can do so here.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
bbq, I guess
I did something different this weekend. I made a complete fucking pig of myself. Shocking, I know.
On Saturday, my buddies Greg and Amit had a barbeque at their place in Brooklyn. Normally I don’t go to Brooklyn, as I am a Manhattan Snob. You see, “New Yorkers” are divided into four categories:
- Manhattan Snob: Pays $1300 a month for a 10x8 bedroom on the fifth floor of a walk-up building. Believes $9 for a turkey sandwich is reasonable and any martini under $12 is a "steal". Thinks Manhattan is the be all and end all of New York City life. Feels disdain and/or pity for people who disagree.
- Brooklyn Asshole: Constantly brags about the size of his/her place, its backyard, its cheap rent, and how “real” the neighborhood is. Always neglects to mention the fact that they have to walk twenty minutes to the subway, must ride the subway for thirty minutes to get into the city, and can’t get a cab home. Will send emails every two months inviting you out for a party and engage you in the “Manhattan vs. Brooklyn” debate when you don’t show up because it’s so fucking far.
- Hoboken Douchebag: Misses college more than he/she lets on and so pays Manhattan prices to live in Happy Valley II. Of all the types of “New Yorker”, the Hoboken Douchebag is the most defensive about where they live. Says taking the PATH train to get home after a night out in the city at 4am (when it runs every thirty minutes) isn’t a big deal. If you’re in your mid- to late-twenties, like beer, work in finance, grew up in Jersey, and more than half your friends would describe you as a "tool", you are required to live there.
- Other: I don’t even like to have conversations with people who don’t fit into those first three categories. When someone says, “I live in Staten Island” or “My apartment is in Jersey City”, I stop listening almost immediately. Odds are good that I wasn’t listening in the first place anyway, so not much is lost.
And so I wasn’t planning on going to this barbeque, because, well, it’s just too fucking far. However, since I’m excellent at burning bridges and holding grudges, I only have about six friends left in the New York City area and thus can’t afford to lose any more. So off to Brooklyn.
Of course, the L train that services Brooklyn wasn’t running (why should the main train connecting Manhattan and Brooklyn operate on the first beautiful weekend of summer?) so I had to cab it over there. I was not averse to this; I prefer cabs to the subway any day of the week. The problem is that cabbies hate driving to Brooklyn. They are required by law to take a passenger there, but ask a cabbie “Can you take me to Brooklyn?” and you’ll get a reaction as if you’d asked “Can I punch you in the face?” or “Would you like to see my scrotum?”
Adding to this was the fact that I had no idea where I was going. I called Greg and asked for directions, but when he was speaking my pen ran out of ink and I was reading an email so just sort of said “Uh huh” and “Right” and pretended I was writing them down. I did manage to get his address, so after we hung up I went to mapquest and found directions, but there was a problem: I don’t have a printer. I could have written the directions out, but they were pretty long. So I wrote some quick directions based on the mapquest ones and the ones Greg gave me. I was ready to go.
Fifteen minutes later, I was lost in Brooklyn under the Williamsburg Bridge, talking to Greg on my cell phone, trying to figure out where the fuck to go while an overweight and very angry Haitian cabbie yelled at me in some mix of English, French, and gibberish. I had to restrain myself from saying, “Dude – you’re from Haiti! Do you know how messed up Haiti is right now? This should not be that big of a deal to you!” God I love going to Brooklyn.
Eventually, I got to Greg’s place. After exchanging “fuck you’s” with the cabbie, I walked around back to see everyone. And I have to admit, Greg and Amit have a nice place. Large. Cheap. Big backyard. But really fucking far.
The BBQ was soon in full swing: beers, lawn chairs, grilling, Beirut, etc. As a fat guy, I love barbeques like some people love Christ or their spouses. But they can be distressing because, as was the case with Greg and Amit’s BBQ, there are women around.
Before you accuse me of being a misogynist, hear me out. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I am a little fat. The good news is that I’ve been fat since about age six, so I have a lot of experience with it. The main goal of a fat person, aside from eating everything he can touch that doesn’t fight back, is trying to minimize the appearance of the fatness; that is, making himself look less fat than he really is. I know I’m pretty fat, but the drunk girl at the BBQ who’s just played five games of Beirut may not know exactly how fat I am. Thus, there are several activities that I refrain from in the presence of women to appear less chubby. These activities include but are not limited to:
- swimming or any other activity that requires shirtlessness
- any sort of bending or unnatural body contortion
- talking about food
- watching tv shows about food
- masturbating with food stuffs
- saying things like "God those burgers look so good I just wanna fuck 'em!"
Eating is the key one. The last thing I want is:
Hot Girl at BBQ #1: “Hey, do you see that fat guy over there eating three cheeseburgers piled on top of each other?”
Hot Girl at BBQ #2: “Yeah. Earlier I went to pee and caught him in the bathroom drinking maple syrup.”
HG #1: “Ewww. I bet his balls smell like lunchmeat.”
HG #2: “They do. Just walk by him and take a whiff.”
HG #1: “I thought I smelled deli meats!”
Of course, one has to eat at a barbeque. That's sort of what they're all about. But whereas I'd normally eat something like two burgers, two hot dogs, a half a bag of Tostitos and anything that was in my line of vision while I ate these things, at this particular barbeque I had only one measly burger (which was delicious). And I did so in a very slow and tasteful manner, resisting the urge to shove the whole thing in my mouth, then running over to the grill to pull half-cooked burgers right off the hot grill, stopping only when being tackled by my friends, and then scanning the area around the grill for any dropped meat or cheese, all the while screaming, “Why do you fear what you don’t understand? WHY DO YOU FEAR WHAT YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND?” at the top of my lungs with tears streaming down my face. I thought about taking additional food inside the house and eating it away from the crowds, but I decided against that. If I were caught sitting in Greg's bedroom, chowing down on hot dogs, I would probably have to leave the party. There's really nothing else to do after that.
Why am I making a point to talk about how little I ate? Because I got drunk. Very drunk. And I blame this on my lack of eating. That and the fact that I had about 760 beers.
The specifics of this are not exciting or memorable. I got Greg and Amit's at 5 in the evening and got home to my place after the bars closed. I checked my call log and I called my voicemail at 4:37 in the morning. Nice.
I think the wheels started coming off when we began playing Beirut. For those of you unfamiliar with it, Beirut, alternatively called Beer Pong, is played by lining cups of beer on opposite ends of a long, thin table (many people put a closet door on top of an existing table). The cups, usually the red solo kind, are halfway filled with beer and are arranged in a triangular pattern on the edge of the table - three cups on the edge, then two, then one. The game is usually played with two people per team and the goal is to throw a ping pong ball into the other team's cups (each teammate getting one throw, then giving the balls to the other team for their throws, etc). If your ball lands in one of the other team's cups, they have to drink that beer. First team to eliminate all the other team’s cups is the winner.
[As you might expect with any drinking game, there are tons of variations on Beirut. At the end of our senior year, my roommates and I invented a derivation of Beirut called "Lanner". The game had most of the rules of Beirut, but instead of throwing the ping pong balls into the cup, you had to bounce the ball in the middle of the table into the cup. Also, if the ball hit the ground at any point, you had to drink. The result was that you had guys diving all over the place, skinning their knees and crashing into walls, trying to keep the balls from hitting the ground. The upshot of this was the extreme surge of testosterone that came with playing this game. The upshot of this was that about ten days after we invented the game, my roommates, friends and I got drunk and a little crazy and destroyed our apartment, throwing furniture and kitchen appliances through the walls, pulling out the wiring, bending the aluminum studs, etc. The next day we were thrown out of housing (one week before graduation), fined $4000, and weren't allowed to go to any special Senior Week events. Probably the greatest week of my life.]
I don't usually play Beirut. I had my time in college and was a pretty good player. But I don't know...though I enjoy myself when I play it, I feel like I'm too old to do so. I've now been out of college longer than I was in it, so I don't feel like I should be playing a game in which I throw a ping pong ball into a cup of beer.
Of course, none of this matter to me at the time. Not at all. If cajoled enough, I probably would have gone to the nearest sporting goods store to have a "BEIRUT 4 LIFE" or "EAT. SLEEP. BEIRUT." t-shirt made. Already many beers deep, my friend Tommy and I joined forces and dominated all comers (mostly girls and two guys who I'm pretty sure were autistic). We were so obnoxious that people stopped playing against us, and gravitated toward other parts of the party. At the time I regarded them as sore losers, but they most likely got tired of Tommy and I screaming "How does that taste, bee-atch?" and signing "I'm a hustler baby!" over and over again.
It’s all a blur from that point forward. We eventually left Greg’s, and some friends and I took a cab back to the city. We went to a bar for some more drinks, because apparently that’s what I needed at that point: more booze. I thought we were at the bar for a drink, but the next day I learned we were there for over three hours. Whoops!
I remember coming home though, because I remember being nearly overcome with rage. I have a major problem with my neighborhood. In the irony of all ironies, it’s impossible to get a slice of pizza in Little Italy after 1am. This is not good. My diet after midnight is broken down as follows:
- 85% pizza or pizza place foods (i.e. beef patties, chicken rolls, etc)
- 14% leftovers (stale or not)
- 1% other (broken glass, foot powder, three pillows, electrical tape, a bandana, half a shower curtain, etc)
So in lieu of pizza, I went after the next best thing: leftovers. I had some General Tso’s in the fridge, so I microwaved and ate that. My roommate Brian had some leftover chicken and broccoli from the same Chinese order, so after I was finished having my way with the General, I heated that up and down it went. Apparently, that wasn’t enough and I needed to satisfy my sweet tooth, so I ate half a carrot cake. God I am so ashamed.
When I woke up the next day, I had one of the worst hangovers I’ve ever had. I spent nearly all day in bed, except for on two occasions when I left to get cream puffs and aspirin in the mid-afternoon (because for some unknown reason we didn’t have any aspirin, ruining my “take two to make the hangover go away” routine) and a pastrami sandwich from Katz’s in the evening. And I’ll tell you something; had I not been so concerned by how my face was caving in and my brain was on fire, I certainly would have gone on an incredible sex crime spree. Good LORD. It was hot as a mother fucker on Sunday and women everywhere responded by covering their boobies with as little clothing as legally possible. I even saw a nipple peaking out of one girl’s shirt! And I didn’t have to pay anything or stand for hours outside a bedroom window in the rain or spend the night in jail! Sweet Jesus!
After I wrapped up the pastrami late Sunday evening, I got high on the couch and did some serious thinking. Here I am, 25 years old, soon to be 26, and all I do is drink, eat, and lust. Those three activities take up at least 90% of my day. It made me sad, so I smoked some more and I thought about what I could do to make myself a better man. Maybe I should volunteer or something? Maybe I could help inmates or poor people or invalids or some shit? Thinking about those less fortunate than me made me even more depressed, so I just kept on smoking, trying to find an answer. Sadly my quest ended abruptly when I got caught up on the name “Paul”. It’s a weird name, isn’t it? Say it to yourself a few times – Paul. Paul. Paul. Then I started saying, “I buried Paul” in the weird voice that comes in at the end of “Strawberry Fields Forever.” Then I started laughing. Then I forgot what I was thinking about in the first place and went to bed.
And so today, Tuesday, I think I’m finally over the hangover. Sunday was unbearable, Monday was rough, but today is better. I had a good time and drank and ate like a slob and had a terrible hangover, but I didn’t die. And that’s huge – not dying is huge. So I’m grateful. And when I do the same thing next weekend, I’ll make sure to order a pizza before going out and to take aspirin before going to bed. See? I learned something. And I didn’t die. That makes for an awesome weekend if you ask me.